


Waiting Game

by MortyVongola



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dead People, Death, F/M, Slow To Update, crazy characters, turning people into soup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortyVongola/pseuds/MortyVongola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was your god. Your air. Your reason for existence. But how long could that last? When would he tire of the games he played with you? When would you cease to be of use? It was a waiting game. </p><p>[Reader x Moriarty]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Possesion

He was your everything. 

He was your Alpha, you the Omega. 

He was the Sun and you were less than the stars. 

He was your beginning, he was your ending. 

He was your savior. Your religion. Oh how you worshiped him! You practically threw yourself into any task he assigned to you. Not caring how cruel or unusual it was, how many you had to kill, or how many bodies you had to turn into an acidic soup. All that mattered was that it was for him. 

He was the only one who could make you do the things you did, say the things you said, and feel the that way you did. Without him, you would have been driven to an insanity worse then this one. A reality in which you didn't exist. You could only attest your presence to him and his grace. 

You assumed that your worth to him was less than that of a trained dog. He could replace you at anytime. Your amount of genius was not uncommon and neither was your seduction ability. Not to say that you weren't good at the things you did. 

"No one can clean my messes like you can, darling," He'd told you once, it was a Tuesday last March (you remembered even the weather outside), not only had he complimented you but he kissed your cheek before he'd left, stepping over the large sum of brain goop spilling onto the floor (he didn't want to ruin his new shoes, they were a gift from the American government, after all). 

You had stared after him. Your chest heavy with elation and devotion. A crooked smile clambered onto your face and you started cleaning the warehouse with a skip in your step. 

"You see that?" You'd asked one of the corpses as you dragged it to the porcelain tub full of bubbling acids that would soon dissolve your newly acquired companion. "He praised me, I'm useful." With that you plopped him into the concoction, you liked to call it people soup, albeit carefully as not to splash yourself.

Cleaning up after something he did was your favorite part. When he'd tell you to clean up after others you'd do it, yet begrudgingly. However he mostly only asked for you to clean up after him, because you were his favorite. Well, at least that's what he'd tell you, and what you liked to indulge yourself in believing. He was your god, after all. 

So young yet so broken. The only people who knew of your existence was him and his star shooter. Those were the only people who could give you orders, even then the only person who could actually make you do it was your savior. He was the one who invited you into this network, he had been the one who rid you of your uncouth fate. He had freed you. 

And now, Moriarty owned you.


	2. Reason of Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was your god. Your air. Your reason for existence. But how long could that last? When would he tire of the games he played with you? When would you cease to be of use? It was a waiting game.
> 
> [Reader x Moriarty]

Moriarty owned you. Oh, he knew that he did. You were so deliciously wrapped around his finger that it was difficult to tell where his finger ended and you began. He absolutely adored that about you. 

He could get you to do anything. You could be bleeding profusely and look like nothing more than a stub but if he said it, you'd do it without hesitation. Oh, how he loved his absolute control over you. 

He was your god. He IS your god. 

His favorite thing about you was the way you squirmed, wriggled, and writhed beneath him. Anything else about you, your skills, your intelligence, even your allegiance to him was pretty obtainable, but what wasn't was your little noises of pure agony. The feel of your arousal on the tips of his fingers. That, that is what was so irreplaceable about you. 

The faces of pure unadulterated joy that you made when he complimented you were so endearing that he wanted to tie you up for the rest of your life and torture you, both sexually and none. He could do that, he knew you wouldn't complain. That is what was so irreplaceable. 

Moriarty laughed. Everything about you screamed adoration and he couldn't help but take advantage of you. In the end it wasn't really taking advantage. He owned you, heart, soul, mind, and (quite frankly his favorite part) body. 

"Oh dear, it seems I've made a mess again," he chuckled. "I think I should call her." 

Immediately you showed up. You gave him a shy smile before getting to work. Moving the bodies to a sterilized room (one with plenty of plastic coverings and the like), once they were moved you stripped yourself of you clothes and showered in iodine, and so on, and so forth. A very tedious process, turning people into soup. However, once all of the bodies were being broken down by the mix of chemicals, and you were scrubbing the floors of the room where the accident had occurred (still naked mind you), that is when Moriarty decided to enlighten himself once again. 

And so, the cycle continued.


End file.
